


breaking out the spring colors

by firefliesandstarlight



Series: geraskier oneshots [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Geraskier, I’m always looking to improve :D, M/M, but its fine, comments and kudos greatly appreciated, fluffily, inspired by me cleaning out my closet yesterday and thinking, its just them living a regular life together, second work in my first ever series!, solely so that i can make jokes about them naming their car, technically roach is only there for like. half a scene, they clean out their closet and go out to dinner, they get a new car, ‘hey. this has geraskier potential.’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefliesandstarlight/pseuds/firefliesandstarlight
Summary: Jaskier convinces Geralt to help him sort through their closet.~~aka i wanted to write some domestic!geraskier and this idea came to me whilst i was cleaning out my own closet. enjoy.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: geraskier oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792660
Comments: 12
Kudos: 116





	breaking out the spring colors

**Author's Note:**

> hope yall like it! 
> 
> only thing warranting a warning is a few instances of canon-typical swearing, but that’s it 
> 
> please lmk what you think in comments!

“Geralt, babe, it’s one o’clock. I beg of you, please, please, please get up. Please.” 

Lying in bed, covers pulled up over his head, Geralt groans. “Why?” 

“You promised!” 

“That doesn’t sound like me.” 

Jaskier puts his hands on his hips and stares Geralt down from the foot of the bed. “Geralt. You promised you’d help me clean out our closet.” 

“When?” 

“If you mean, ‘when did I make this promise,’ the answer is yesterday.” Jaskier walks around to the side of the bed. “But if you mean, ‘when did I promise I would do this,’ the answer is now, and by now, I mean immediately.” He tugs at the blankets, pulling them off Geralt and tossing them at his feet. 

Geralt, eyes still closed, reaches down to the foot of the bed to try and find them. He is unsuccessful. “But our closet is fine. It doesn’t need my help.” 

“It totally does.” Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “And unless you want me to pull you to your feet myself, I would suggest getting up. I already started, I just need your help with your section.” 

Geralt groans again. “Fine.” He opens his eyes, and Jaskier steps back, eyebrows raised expectantly.

With a shit-eating grin, Geralt lunges for the blankets, yanks them up and over his head, and lies down again, burrowing into the mattress. 

“Geralt!”

Geralt does not reply. 

Jaskier tries to pull the blankets off him again to no avail. Geralt is holding onto them for dear life, determined not to lose his comfortable position. 

“I’ll let you name our new car,” Jaskier wheedles, still tugging at the blankets. “Whatever you want. I won’t protest.” 

Geralt lowers the covers a few inches, eyes now visible. “Whatever I want?” 

“Whatever you want.” Jaskier knows he’s going to regret this.  _ Watch as he names it something stupid. Like ‘Scorpion.’ Or something tragically basic, like ‘Chevy’. Is it too late to take it back?  _ “Within reason, of course.” 

“Hmm.” 

Geralt lowers the covers a bit more, exposing his face and most of his torso. He considers this offer, brow furrowed. “What names would you consider unacceptable?” 

Jaskier thinks for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his weirdly extravagant pajama shirt. “Well, the car is grey. So nothing that would go against a grey aesthetic. Can’t have a grey car named after an ocean, for example. Ridiculous.”

Geralt hums. 

“And it can’t be named after something with green, nature-y vibes, either,” Jaskier adds, ticking the ‘don’t’s off on his fingers. “Or sunset vibes, or autumn vibes. Spring and summer vibes are also off the table, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Geralt nods, doing his best to keep track. 

“So really the only thing left is a name with nighttime energy. Perhaps winter-y, if I’m feeling generous. Potentially feral.” 

“These terms are acceptable.” Geralt holds out a hand. “Shake on it.”

Jaskier does. “So you’ll help with the closet now?” 

Geralt grunts and kicks the blankets the rest of the way off. 

“I will take that as a yes.” Jaskier skips off to their closet, and Geralt trudges after him, still wiping sleep from his eyes. 

Jaskier walks right in, but Geralt stops in the doorway, taking in the absolute mess their closet has suddenly become. He turns his head slowly, trying to figure out what happened to the perfectly organized closet they’d shared just the night before. 

“What happened?” he says finally, and Jaskier, from his criss-cross position underneath a small mountain of sweaters, holds up a stained white suit jacket. 

“To this? I have no idea. I found it crumpled in the back. It’s not mine—” Jaskier gestures to the jacket, somehow managing to communicate to Geralt that the cut is all wrong, and the color just isn’t right, nevermind the wine stain. “—clearly, but it’s not your size, either, so I’m thinking it just materialized one day and we never noticed.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “No, I mean what happened to our closet? Was there an earthquake or something?” 

Jaskier actually laughs. “Geralt, I started cleaning! And you know there wasn’t an earthquake, you’d have woken up and dragged me outside no matter the time of day. Or night, as it may be.” 

“This is cleaning?” Geralt appraises the closet again, taking special notice of his section, which is just as disorganized as Jaskier’s. “It just looks like you made it worse.” 

“Has to be messy before it can be clean,” Jaskier says in a sing-song voice, and Geralt sighs. 

“Hmm.” He enters the closet slowly, as if afraid a sock monster will pop up out of the piles of clothing and attack. “Where do I start?” 

Jaskier, examining a pale blue shirt that Geralt idly observes is the same color as Jaskier’s eyes, points to what used to be Geralt’s section of the closet. “I’ve found that shirts are a good place to start.” 

Geralt shakes his head and sits down in between a pile of shirts and a stack of jackets, poking at wayward tags and frayed hems. 

It’s as if Jaskier reads his mind. “If it’s old, torn, faded, falling apart, or in any other state of disrepair or lack-of-fashion, it goes in The Bag.” He points to a large black trash bag leaning up against the wall. “We will donate whatever we don’t keep. Unless it’s ugly. Then we’ll just throw it away.” 

Geralt holds up a plain black t-shirt sporting a rather large hole in the armpit. “This?” 

Jaskier doesn’t even look up from the jacket he’s inspecting. “Bag.” 

“But it has a hole in it.” 

“There should be another bag behind the first. White, I think, just like a regular trash bag. Clothing beyond repair goes there.” He looks up and grins at Geralt. “Isn’t this just a lovely way to spend our Saturday?” 

Geralt grunts, and Jaskier chuckles. “See, you don’t mind it. It’s relaxing!” 

“Hmm.” 

Time passes quickly. Every so often, Jaskier asks for Geralt’s opinion on a shirt, or a pair of pants that’s  _ technically _ still in fashion but a few years old. 

“What do you think about this one?” Jaskier holds a flamboyantly bright yellow shirt embroidered with buttercups up to his chest. “Good? Bad? Too old? Not flattering?” 

Geralt stares at the shirt, eyebrows raised. “Hmm.” 

“You’re right. The embroidery is far too good to just throw away.” Jaskier rolls up the shirt and tosses it into the black bag. “Somebody else can make use of it.” 

“Is this… how’s this?” Geralt throws a black shirt at Jaskier, this one long sleeved. 

Jaskier looks at the shirt, then at Geralt, then back to the shirt. “It’s… alright, I guess.” He throws it back to Geralt. “How many other identical shirts like that do you have?” 

Geralt folds the shirt neatly and places it atop his ‘keep’ pile. “Just nine.” 

“Just… nine…” Jaskier stares at Geralt’s ‘keep’ pile, only just realizing that every single thing in it is some variety of a plain black shirt. “Geralt, please tell me you own something other than a black shirt.” 

It takes a moment of digging through his ‘unsorted’ pile, but Geralt finally finds something. 

He holds up a pair of black jeans with one hand and points to them with the other. “This is not a black shirt.” 

Jaskier facepalms.

“What?” 

“Do you have any article of clothing— literally anything, just one little tiny thing— that’s  _ not _ solid black?” 

Geralt considers, staring at his completely upended ‘unsorted’ pile. Jaskier takes this as an answer. 

“Here.” He tosses a blue shirt at Geralt, the one he’d been examining earlier. “This one is too big for me. Try it.” 

“Now?” 

“Yes, Geralt, now. You need to break out the spring colors.”

“I have spring colors!”

“Oh, yeah? What are they, a slightly lighter shade of black?” 

Geralt opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t find anything to say to refute Jaskier’s (correct) inquiry. He closes his mouth and picks up the blue shirt wordlessly. 

Jaskier shakes his head and smiles. “Knew it.” 

Geralt exchanges his pajama shirt for Jaskier’s blue one, looking up at Jaskier for any comments. “What’d’you think?” 

“I…” Jaskier stares at the shirt, searching for words. “I have never seen you in such a light shade, and I think it’s absolutely wonderful.” 

Geralt nods. “Neat.” 

“Neat? Geralt, this is a milestone! A day history will remember for a hundred years! You, never before seen in anything other than dreary dark greys and deep blacks, have tried on and accepted a blue shirt! I cannot believe it.” Jaskier claps his hands together. “Truly remarkable.” He crawls over the piles of clothes between them to press a gentle kiss to Geralt’s lips. “I’m so proud.” 

Heat rushes to Geralt’s face, and he just grunts. 

Jaskier hides his smile well. 

He crawls back to his place next to his piles of clothes. “Okay, one last shirt for your consideration, and then we can move on to sorting through our oddly large shoe collection. What do you think?” 

“Hmm.” 

“It’s a plan.” Jaskier holds up his last shirt, a blush-red thing emblazoned with a drawing of a lute. “Found this baby at a thrift shop in New York. Never thought I’d find a shirt with a lute on it in this largely lute-less day and age.” 

Geralt shrugs. “Fair.” 

“Okay, so, thoughts? Good, bad, giveaway?” Jaskier swishes the shirt around. “I like it. Goes well with that jacket you bought for me for my birthday last year.” 

Geralt shrugs again. “You seem attached.” 

“So you don’t like it,” Jaskier says, jutting out his bottom lip and letting the shirt drop. 

“No, I think it’s fine.” 

“A glowing review!” Jaskier perks up again and drops the shirt into his ‘keep’ pile. “Alrighty! Time to look through those shoes.” 

Geralt sighs dramatically and tucks his favorite leather jacket onto a hanger. “Must we?” 

“We must!” Jaskier scoots over to the shoe rack pushed up against the wall. “Whose shoes do we start with, yours or mine?” 

“Yours.” Geralt doesn’t hesitate. 

“Okey dokey.” Jaskier inches to the left, just far enough so that Geralt can sit beside him and still see Jaskier’s shoes. “I think it’s safe to say you chose to start with the more complicated one.” 

Geralt barks out a laugh. “You could say that.” 

Jaskier’s side of the shoe rack is invisible. That is to say, they can’t see the shoe rack because Jaskier has so many shoes. 

There’s a small section of simpler shoes, like patterned flip flops and bright sneakers and a surprisingly normal-looking pair of brown leather boots. 

And then there’s the rest of Jaskier’s shoes. 

High-heeled boots and silky slippers and embroidered oxfords and striped sandals and embellished wedges, all stacked haphazardly on the thin metal rack. And that isn’t even touching the section of formal shoes. 

Jaskier tosses out a few pairs right away— “Those look perfectly fine to me, Jaskier, I don’t see why you’re getting rid of them.” “Because, Geralt, they’re from two seasons ago and I can’t possibly wear them anywhere again without appearing a complete and utter fool.”— but others, he can’t bear to part with. 

Geralt is more confused than he’s ever been in his whole life. 

“Those are so worn, though. The soles alone are a hazard,” he mutters, accepting the beat-up pair of sneakers Jaskier hands him. “You got rid of those other, perfectly useful sneakers; can’t we trade them out for these?” 

“Geralt!” Jaskier looks scandalized as he places some sandals in the giveaway bag. “Those sneakers were awful! At least two and a half years old, and out of fashion for twice as long.” He takes the pair of sneakers back from Geralt and places them lovingly back on the shoe rack. “These, however, are perfect. You can’t go wrong with a shoe like this.” 

Geralt “Hmm”s. “If you say so.” 

“I do say so. What do you think about these?” Pointing to a pair of plain-toe boots embroidered with little yellow flowers, Jaskier cocks his head, looking them over. “I like them. A bit dated, but then again, everything old is new again.” 

“They’re nice,” Geralt says simply. 

Jaskier smiles and pats the top of the boots. “I agree.” The boots stay. 

What is either weeks or minutes later, depending upon who you ask, Jaskier finishes sorting through his shoes, satisfied that he’s kept the good ones and gotten rid of the iffy and just plain old bad ones. 

“Your turn!” Jaskier rotates so he’s facing Geralt’s section of shoes. “This’ll be easy.” 

It is not, in fact, easy. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier pleads, holding up two nearly identical pairs of black loafers, “please, get rid of one of them. Just one. Please.”

Geralt crosses his arms. “No.” 

“They’re the same.” Jaskier looks desperate. His hair is sticking up at the sides, and it’s clear they’ve been at this for a while. “Geralt, they’re literally the same pair of shoes. You only need one. Please, I beg of you. Just get rid of one of them. Your least favorite pair.” 

“I like them both the same.” 

Jaskier drops the shoes and brushes his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “We can get rid of both of them, then.” 

“Fine.” Geralt takes one shoe from each pair. “I like this one”— he holds up the one in his left hand— “for its versatility. It matches everything. Very durable.” He turns his attention to the other shoe, in his right hand. “This one, I like because…” He pauses, stares at the shoe. “Fuck. You’re right. They’re the same.” 

“Thank you!” Jaskier tosses his hands up. “So which one are you getting rid of?” 

Geralt weighs the two shoes against each other in silence before answering. “This one.” He gives Jaskier the shoe from his left hand. 

“Thank fuck.” Jaskier takes the shoe, plus its twin, and shoves them deep into the giveaway bag. “Okay. Next pair.” 

Geralt hesitates. 

“You okay?” Jaskier leans towards Geralt, concern creasing his brow. “You’re very quiet all of a sudden.” 

Geralt picks up another pair of shoes from the rack. “Well.” 

The shoes, despite being the third pair they’ve gone through, are exactly the same as the first two pairs of Geralt’s shoes. 

“Geralt!” 

“What?” Geralt says innocently, but he hands over the shoes. “Fine, fine.” 

“Next time you go shoe-shopping, make sure I’m with you, please,” Jaskier says, adding the shoes to the giveaway bag with gusto. “We can prevent another black loafer disaster before it can begin.” 

Geralt sighs. “Fine.” He makes a mental note to never go shoe shopping ever. 

“How many pairs are left?” Jaskier asks, peering around Geralt to get a better look at the shoe rack. 

“Six.” 

“Please tell me they’re not all black loafers.” 

Two of them are, indeed, black loafers. Jaskier nearly cries. Geralt doesn’t protest when Jaskier adds both pairs to the giveaway bag. 

“Four to go.” Jaskier motions to the rack. “What’s next?” 

Geralt shows him. It’s black sneakers, sensible and mostly unworn. 

“Oh, I never thought I’d be so happy to see a pair of sneakers in my life,” Jaskier says, relieved. “Those can stay.”

The next pairs are black combat boots and dark brown wingtip derbies, respectfully. Jaskier practically cheers when he sees the brown derbies.

“Oh my god, Geralt, you own brown shoes.” Jaskier holds them up. “They’re so shiny! And dapper! I love them.” 

Geralt decides that both pairs can go back on the shoe rack, to be kept and worn at a later date. 

The last pair is not really a pair of shoes at all. It’s soft periwinkle slippers, lined with the fluffiest faux fur Jaskier has ever felt. 

“Geralt.” 

“Hmm?” 

“These are  _ gorgeous _ .” 

Geralt smiles. “I like them.” 

“So do I.” 

The slippers do not go back on the shoe rack. They don’t go in either the ‘trash’ or ‘giveaway’ bags, either. No, the slippers go on Geralt’s feet, much to Jaskier’s delight, and Geralt wears them for the rest of the day. 

Jaskier loves them for a multitude of reasons, the first being that he thinks Geralt looks adorable in them (and even more so when he tells Geralt so and Geralt looks grumpier than ever). The second reason is quite simple: the slippers are the brightest color Jaskier has ever seen Geralt wear, and he thinks it’s hilarious. The third reason isn’t really a reason, just something that Jaskier notices; whenever Geralt walks around the house, the slippers make his usually silent footsteps squeak on the wood floor, and the sight of Geralt, usually so stoic and brood-y, walking around in periwinkle slippers that squeak every third step adds a year to Jaskier’s life every time he sees it. 

Geralt lugs the ‘giveaway’ bag to the trunk of their new car and tosses it in unceremoniously. Jaskier closes the trunk, and when he turns back to Geralt, Geralt is running a hand along the side of the car and smiling softly. 

“What? What is it?” Jaskier walks over to him and wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist, resting his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. “What’re you smiling about?” 

“I figured it out.” 

“Figured what out?” 

“The name for our car.” 

Jaskier tilts his head to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Oh?” 

“Mhmm. Her name is Roach.” 

Jaskier lets go of Geralt and takes a step back. “You’re joking. Our brand new car, a lovely shade of grey, with all the fancy knobs and things you wanted it to have, and you’re naming it  _ Roach _ ?” 

“Yes. Her name is Roach.” 

Jaskier stares at the car for a moment. “Alright.” 

“Alright?” 

“Alright.” Jaskier turns to Geralt and shrugs. “Why not? Our new car’s name is Roach.” 

Geralt grins. “Roach.” 

“Roach.” Jaskier shakes his head and throws an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. “Back inside, love. We’ve still got to hang up all the clothes we left on the closet floor.” 

“Must we?” Geralt groans, letting Jaskier steer him back inside and to their closet. 

“We must,” Jaskier says, picking up a shirt and draping it onto a hanger. “As much as we don’t want to.” 

Geralt hums and starts hanging up the rest of his clothes. 

They finish hanging everything up within seconds of each other. Jaskier suggests taking the new car out for a drive, and Geralt agrees, on one condition: 

“Roach gets to choose where we go.” 

“Roach is a car, Geralt. She can’t choose where we go.” 

“Fine. I get to choose where we go.” 

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand. “Alright, you get to choose where we go. But if you say ‘that new pub downtown’, I will make you throw away another plain black shirt.” 

Geralt says nothing. 

“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier laughs. “Fine, fine, we can go to the new pub downtown. But I drive.” 

“No way.” Geralt sprints the last few feet to Roach, opening the driver’s side door and getting in before Jaskier has even stepped outside. 

“That works too. Are we really going to that pub, though?” 

They go back and forth for a while before settling on the taco place they tend to frequent on a weekly basis. 

“Onward, valiant steed!” Jaskier crows, and Geralt starts driving to the new pub downtown. 

Jaskier figures out where they’re actually going pretty fast, but he doesn’t mind. He has a grand time at the karaoke bar while Geralt, nursing a tankard of ale, watches him from a corner table, careful not to spill on his new blue shirt. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! kudos and comments make the world go round <3


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